


Blue and Gold

by booksong



Series: SportsFest 2018 Bonus Rounds [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Kasamatsu is a tsundere, M/M, Photoshoots, Reunion Fic, Way too many italics, attempts at flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksong/pseuds/booksong
Summary: "Kasamatsu always takes the longer way home because it goes past the park.The park...has a basketball court."OR; Four years after graduation, fate decides to screw with Kasamatsu on his usual route home from work.





	Blue and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> *Over two months after SportsFest, I've finally decided to post up my bonus round entries to AO3! They'll all be collected in the 'SportsFest 2018 Bonus Rounds' series (though each stands completely on its own) if you'd like to check out the others. Many of these pairings and fandoms I've never written for before, but all are near and dear to my heart and I had a blast writing every single one, so please let me know what you think!
> 
> Written for BR 1: Time and Place, with the the prompt 'TIME: After graduation/PLACE: A random photoshoot that Kasamatsu runs into'

Kasamatsu always takes the longer way home because it goes past the park. 

He’s tried for several months now to convince himself that this isn’t the reason: the exercise is good for him after sitting at a desk or pacing at the front of a lecture hall all day, the route also takes him past the conbini with the best discount bentos, the train is too crowded at the end of a long day. Plenty of other reasons besides the tidy little park dropped in among the urban sprawl.

The park...has a basketball court.

It’s one of those minimal concrete ones, set up like an afterthought at the edge of the park’s boundaries, and it always seems so tiny to him even though technically it _is_ a full-court. It’s true that concrete just doesn’t echo like parquet, and there’s no dome of a ceiling above to magnify the squeal of rubber soles and the rhythmic heartbeat of a dribbled ball. 

Not that he spends much time thinking about it.

There’s not that many kids in this neighborhood, so even on days like today when Kasamatsu manages to finish grading papers early and head home mid-afternoon, the court is more likely to be empty than occupied. Sometimes he’ll walk a little slower (to give his feet a rest) if there’s a pickup game going on, listening to the scuffle and shout of voices tearing up and down that concrete rectangle.

But today, as Kasamatsu approaches the low brick wall and stand of trees that mark the park’s border, he doesn’t hear either deserted silence or the good-natured shouts and curses of teenagers. He hears...well, it sounds like a full on _mob_.

There’s a whole horde of people crammed in around the court, it looks like, and his first thought is that there’s a fight going on and he’s going to have to try to remember where the nearest police box is. But the majority of the voices making up the clamor sound distinctly female, and as he gets closer it’s clear the crowd’s energy is all wrong for a fight. 

Then he sees the camera equipment and it all clicks. So they’re filming here for something, then--a drama or a documentary, or maybe a music video. 

In spite of himself, Kasamatsu can’t help lifting up onto the balls of his feet a little as he skirts the park, trying to catch a glimpse through the gaps between shoulders and arms. He’s not _quite_ as sensitive about his height now that he doesn’t spend his days shouting up at ridiculously tall people, but in times like these it was still mildly irritating to have to crane his neck to see over a crowd--it’s kind of ruining the apathetic passerby persona he’d been trying to cultivate. Aside from the crowd itself, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of movement going on on the court, although if it’s a quieter TV drama scene…

And then it’s like a tunnel briefly opens up, a line of sight for his eyes only, and he sees a flash of bright blue and the sun catching on blond hair, _gold_ hair--

Kasamatsu can’t breathe, for a moment, like something has simultaneously kicked him in the chest and dragged him backwards in time by the scruff of the neck. They’re just _colors_ , just two colors, but for a moment he’s back inside a gym, and the afternoon sun is the floodlights and the concrete is parquet and all around him is _blue_. Blue...and that one spot of gold.

His fingertips itch with the memory, the _imperative_ , of passing the ball. 

He starts walking again, needing to get past the park before anyone sees him over here having some kind of--episode--over a stupid sense memory from years ago. Over some blond foreign actor in a blue shirt who’s probably just filming for a TV episode.

But before the court is out of sight, before the crowd’s murmur fades away, Kasamatsu can’t stop himself from looking back one more time. Just...to check.

The angle is different, from further down the sidewalk, and he can see much better now. He can see the spidery black camera stands, the backdrops hung on steel skeletons. A woman with such a bright dyed pink streak in her hair that he can see it all the way from over here, pointing at various things with authority.

And he can see it’s not a blond foreigner filming for TV.

He doesn’t think it’s possible that Kise has gotten taller, so he’s forced to chalk the fact that it takes him by surprise all over again up to the four years since the last time they saw each other. He still moves the same way, with the obvious excitement and energy in his limbs tamed down into competent grace. 

And he’s wearing what Kasamatsu is pretty sure is a blue basketball jersey, and it makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that they sting.

He’s too far away for more details than that, too far away for Kasamatsu to be anything other than certain of who he’s looking at. 

Far enough away to keep walking, if he wanted.

His feet are already carrying him back before he can consciously make that decision. So much for being an apathetic passerby.

It’s so dangerous to join the fringes of the crowd, so dangerous to be this close. He’s practically asking to be seen, to be recognized. On one level Kasamatsu knows this, and on the other he sort of feels like giving the finger to fate right now. _You made me go home this way today. You put him here, in this park. You made me see him._

_Now finish what you started, you bastard._

There are still a few people crowded around, but at some point it looks like the woman with the dyed hair had managed to disperse them somewhat, so Kasamatsu doesn’t need to crane his neck quite as much to see over the crowd’s shoulders.

For a moment, Kasamatsu’s stomach feels hollow at the realization that Kise is not actually wearing a Kaijou jersey, and then he feels like giving himself one of his own patented kicks for thinking something so ridiculous. Kise probably hadn’t even _kept_ his high school jersey, and if he had, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to bring it out to wear for a photoshoot.

He’s holding a basketball in the crook of one arm, the fingers of that hand idly brushing the fabric of the basketball shorts settled low on his hips. His other hand keeps changing position between shots: now resting at his waist, now outstretched like he was motioning to a teammate, now raking through his gold hair (Kasamatsu had to find somewhere else to rest his gaze during that shot). There’s something half-artistic, half-athletic about how easily Kise shifts between stances like they were basketball drills. It’s actually disgustingly unfair, in Kasamatsu’s opinion.

Then Kise changes angles, and in doing so turns to face the crowd more (to the squealed glee of the remaining onlookers). It also means that Kasamatsu is now directly in his line of sight. 

There’s a beat between the moment their gazes lock and the moment recognition hits, and then the lazy, cocky model smirk drops off Kise’s face just as the stuttering click of the cameras go off for the next shot.

He looks so _young_ like that, wide-eyed and startled, like he used to look when Kasamatsu had just snagged the ball out of his hands when he wasn’t paying attention during practice.

Kasamatsu watches Kise’s lips silently form the word ‘ _senpai?_ ’ and oh. _Oh_ , that’s-- 

_Shit._

“ _Kise!_ What the hell kind of face was that?” cries the pink-streak woman impatiently, snapping her fingers at the cameramen to reset the shot. “Focus, the light’s starting to change and we’re not going to be able to make this deadline if we don’t wrap today!” 

Kise pulls himself back together with such clearly visible _effort_ that it makes Kasamatsu’s chest feel tight and warm. His left hand settles back on his hip, near the waistband of the loose basketball shorts, his other one going to his shoulder like he’s casually rubbing a kink out of his neck, loose and languid. He puts the model face back on, but Kasamatsu swears Kise’s eyes dart back to his once more before they refocus on the camera.

They keep going with the shoot from there, and after every shot, every pose change, Kasamatsu swears he’ll leave after the next one. 

And then suddenly it’s over and he’s still standing there, as the camera crew starts breaking down the equipment and backdrops. And the pink-streak woman (his manager?) is talking to Kise now, but he just keeps glancing over her head at Kasamatsu like he’s making sure Kasamatsu is still there, probably not listening to a word. 

Kasamatsu swallows hard. He could still leave, now, while they haven’t yet spoken--he hasn’t yet passed the point of no return. But he is wearing his nice dress clothes today; it would look kind of strange for a man in a suit jacket and slacks to go tearing out of the park at this point.

And Kise’s edging past his manager now, nodding rapidly to whatever she’s saying even as he’s jogging straight across the court toward Kasamatsu. It really _does_ seem small now, with the way Kise’s stupidly long strides eat up that distance in seconds, and he’s not even fooling himself anymore, not really. 

He’d passed the point of no return a long time ago, maybe even years before today.

“ _Kasamatsu-senpai!_ ” Kise’s hands go out like he’s going to grab Kasamatsu by the shoulders and--what? Give him a manly shoulder slap? Pull him into a hug? Shake him? Kasamatsu can empathize with the dilemma. Instead they sort of pause midair, and then drop to Kise’s sides, though he’s still fidgeting those long fingers of his in thoughtless excitement. “What are you _doing_ here? I thought you were going to university in Tokyo? Do you live around here? How did you find me? Why--”

“Kise, shut up.” The words come out like it hasn’t been four years since he’s said them, and Kise obeys like it hasn’t been four years either. And that’s--he won’t think too hard about it right now. There’s a lot he’s trying not to think too hard about right now, forcing himself to meet Kise’s glowing gold eyes. Seeing (and dealing with) him every day for over a year in high school had blunted Kasamatsu’s susceptibility to his, his _light_ , but apparently that was something that wore off. 

“I was at Todai, but I got a job as a student instructor at the university here, so I moved. What are _you_ doing here?”

Kise’s anxious fingers come up to pinch the mesh jersey between his thumb and forefinger. “I was at the agency branch out here to do some jewelry promotions, and this new sportswear thing came up kinda last minute. They were going for a ‘natural outdoor setting’ for the backdrop, I think they said? So they brought me out here.”

_What are the goddamn odds?_ Kasamatsu thinks, mentally flipping fate off again (although maybe with a bit less vitriol this time). Aloud, he says, “So they’ve still got you doing the sports stuff sometimes, huh? I guess the Miracle thing still holds weight, even now.”

Kise shrugs, looking a little embarrassed, which makes Kasamatsu’s chest hot again. The Kise he’d first met would never have even _thought_ to be embarrassed at the idea of being exalted as one of the Generation of Miracles. “I don’t mind. I kind of like it, actually. It...it brings back some nice memories.” 

Kasamatsu thinks of his own storm of recently disturbed memories, the way seeing Kise had brought them surging up again: a rock thrown into a still pond.

“They...they let me pick, actually,” Kise says, and his voice is almost _shy_ , suddenly. “The new line comes in a bunch of colors, so they let me pick which one I wanted to wear for this shoot! That almost never happens, so I, um, took them up on it.” He’s not quite meeting Kasamatsu’s eyes, which is actually awesome because Kasamatsu just _knows_ that at least his neck and ears must be red by now, if not his face too; he can feel it. Kise looks down at himself, tugging at the collar of the jersey so that Kasamatsu can see the cut line of his collarbone and the top of his chest. “I thought this blue was pretty close to...y’know, _ours_.” The word in Kise’s mouth is so full of pride, and it rings in Kasamatsu’s bones, sending an almost painful wave of--of-- _something_ swelling against the inside of his ribs.

“It still looks good on you. The blue,” says Kasamatsu’s mouth with _no rational input from his brain **what the hell**_. It’s not a _lie_ , it’s just not something he would ever actually say to Kise’s face. Except he just did. And he hasn’t seen Kise’s face in four years and he’s _missed it—_

“Senpai?” Kise’s eyes are wide again, wide and sort of...hopeful. God, shit, he was _never_ able to handle hopeful Kise—Kise whose stupid, Miracle confidence could bring their whole team running in its wake—and apparently that’s not starting now.

“I’m not your senpai anymore,” Kasamatsu snaps quickly, in hopes of changing the subject and keeping his mouth from betraying him again. And because he hopes the harsh tone will disguise the rasp in his voice.

“Maybe not at school.” Kise doesn’t seem hurt by the rebuff the way Kasamatsu expected. “But you’re still older than me, senpai, and you have a real university job! I always knew you were smart, but you look so _professional_ like this, it’s kinda…” Kise trails off, and his hand goes up to the back of his neck, like the pose from earlier, only he’s not in front of a camera now.

Kasamatsu isn’t sure what to say--he both wants and desperately does not want Kise to finish that sentence. It’s similar to the way he can’t decide whether he loves or hates Kise’s manager when she shouts suddenly, “Kise, we need to head back to the office for that wrap-up meeting! Flirt on your own time!”

Kise’s eyebrows draw together and he, at least, looks distinctly disappointed at this development. He also, Kasamatsu notices, doesn’t deny the accusation of flirting. He shifts from foot to foot for a moment, biting his lip, and then blurts, “Senpai, they’re doing another shooting here next week. Please come.”

“I--I might be busy.” Kasamatsu silently curses himself for the instinctive dodge; as if he hadn’t already been planning to start taking this route on the way to _and_ from work from now on.

Suddenly Kise’s eyes absolutely light up, and this time he really does take Kasamatsu by the shoulders. “That’s it! The shoot next week--it’s supposed to be a dynamic one, with action shots! And they were looking for someone else to look like they’re playing against me.” Kise’s voice has that breathless quality to it, like it used to when he’d relived aloud the plays he’d made in the locker room after a game. Like he was back on the court, seeing it play out. “I’ll tell them you used to really play basketball with me, and you’ll know how to get it to look realistic! We could even play a one-on-one and let them use footage of that.” Kise’s big hands are warm and tight on his shoulders, wrinkling his suit jacket a little.

“That’s ridiculous, I’m not--do I look like a model to you, idiot?” Kasamatsu can’t even imagine how plain he’d look contrasted next to Kise on the glossy pages of a magazine. Small and coarse and clumsy. “There’s a reason you’re in this business and I’m not, you know.”

“It’s for a sports magazine, senpai, you don’t need to be pretty,” says Kise dismissively, and Kasamatsu feels a sudden and overwhelming impulse to kick him in the shins, even though he’s wearing nice leather dress shoes. Then Kise’s eyes dart back to his, before skimming slow and lingering down the length of his body, so deliberate he has to try hard not to let himself shudder at it.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re some people’s type, senpai,” Kise says, and when he grins it’s an unholy combination of shy and wicked, and Kasamatsu knows he’s lost the battle, and probably also the war.

“ _Kise,_ ” his manager shouts, clearly out of patience.

“See you next week?” At least Kise has the decency to still make it a question.

“You--you’re an idiot,” Kasamatsu growls, pressing a hand over his (hot, probably bright red) face. It’s not really an answer, but sometimes you just had to go with the tried-and-true standbys.

Faster than he can react, Kise reaches out and pulls his hand down from his face. The kiss is there and gone in a second, pressed fierce and fast to the corner of his mouth. And then Kise is jogging back across that tiny concrete court, waving exuberantly over his shoulder. Like an _idiot_.

“I’ll make sure they save you a blue jersey, senpai!”

That absolute _brat_.

Kasamatsu presses his thumb to the edge of his lip. He’s going to have to hit the gym one afternoon this week, now...just to make sure he’s still sharp.

The future looks blue and gold, and bright.


End file.
